Monday, June 22, 2015

Mercedes Ruehl is just great, so
marvelous it's hard to believe she actually won an Oscar for the
role. As Anne, the proprietor of a low-end video store in New York
City, Ruehl portrays a vibrant woman with the endearing combination
of self-confidence and neurosis that makes her an instant point of
identification. A lesser actress might have turned Anne into a
co-dependent enabler whose only function is to boost the confidence
of her undeserving lunkhead of a boyfriend, but Anne has come to her
very active belief in the primacy of romantic love through painful
experience and serious consideration. She's not a pushover but an
acolyte, and if she strokes that lunkhead's ego it's because she
believes it's an act of kindness necessary to cope in a scary world.
Acts of kindness are highly prized and hard fought in this film.

That lunkhead's first name is Jack and
his last name is Lucas, but if you cut out the “Lu” and then say
the whole name out loud you get a better idea of what kind of guy he
is. In the opening sequence, Jack is a radio shock jock whose success
has made him arrogant though his pride goeth quickly when a
thoughtless bit of advice he spews to a listener inspires the lost
soul to commit mass murder, a tragedy that claims Jack's professional
reputation among its victims.

Jack is played by Jeff Bridges who
is invariably great, even here when he is cast against type as a
narcissistic twit who doesn't appreciate the considerable gifts he's
been granted, chief among them the amazing Anne to whom he turns
only after he is both down and out. As indicated above, he does not
deserve her devotion in any way. The script does argue, however, that
Jack deserves a shot at redemption for his callous behavior and that
opportunity comes in the form of a homeless man known as Parry.

Parry is played by Robin Williams and
it's impossible today to watch his performance without thinking of
the comedian's recent death. This time a year ago, perhaps you
wouldn't have felt guilty for finding parts of his typically
energetic and insistence performance to be a little irritating. Or
even a lot. It's still OK to think that. Where some actors are love
'em or leave 'em types, I have always thought of Williams as a love
'em AND leave 'em guy whose genius was the ability to work your last
nerve and still find a way to burrow under your skin and win a place
in your affection.

That's definitely the case with Parry
who was once fully assimilated into yuppiedom just like Jack, but has
retreated into a world of myth and madness as the result of his own
personal tragedy which, by sheer coincidence (ahem), is directly
connected to Jack's carelessness. Parry believes he is a knight (with
garbage can shield) on a mission to retrieve the Holy Grail which
remains just tantalizingly out of reach in an Upper East Side
mansion; the invisible little people who advise him told him about
it. Parry immediately enlists his new friend in his noble quest, but
Jack resists for as long as possible.

That's all grist for Williams' manic
mill, but while he certainly hurls his whole hairy body (on full
display in one scene... fair warning) into Parry's most delusional
moments, he remains controlled in other scenes, particularly when
craftily pitching woo (“I have a hard on for you the size of
Florida.”) at his love interest, the shy, bookish Lydia (Amanda
Plummer, also very good though in a smaller role than the others.)
Williams is sometimes a little irritating and more than a little
mawkish as he works those puppy dog eyes and scraggly beard, but it's
the kind of performance that just keeps gnawing at you and is one
you're unlikely to forget, at the very least for the earworming lyric
“I like New York in June.”

Compelling characters and fine
performances from all the major players. So what's not to like? Well,
there's the little problem of the pie-eyed fairy tale premise which
seems terribly precious to me but I suppose it's a “You either buy
into it or you don't” kind of thing. First-time feature
screenwriter Richard LaGravenese took the risk of investing fully in
his romantic conceit and won the admiration of producer Lynda Obst
who battled for the project for years and enlisted other enthusiastic
collaborators, so plenty of smart people bought. But the script
relies far too heavily on the “magical homeless man” as a device
for my taste. Not just Parry, but also sanitized, user-friendly
sources of wisdom and comic relief from characters played by Michael
Jeter, Tom Waits, and others who exist primarily to help Jack to
complete his hero's journey.

It all still holds together until the
final act careens wildly off the rails (Ed. Note: I just read a
review that asserts the second act, easily my favorite stretch,
stumbles but the flawless final act redeems the whole movie –
everyone's got an opinion, huh?) The humbled Jack has spent nearly
two hours ostensibly being redeemed by his interactions with Parry
and friends (and Anne, of course), chucks it all in the dustbin in an
instant, then abruptly re-reverses course at the slightest prompting
in order to launch an unconvincing effort to complete Parry's
quixotic quest.

Yes, it's another act of kindness but
one that feels motivated strictly by the dictates of the plot rather
than character. Furthemore, the suggestion that a friendly gesture is
all that's needed to cure Parry's mental illness comes off as cheap,
if not outright demeaning. I realize it's make-believe, but it's a
bit of make-believe that leaves me a bit queasy; in general, the
film's treatment of trauma feels rather facile. It also doesn't help
that Anne is barely around for the final half hour as Ruehl's assured
vitality is sorely missed.

There's little about the final act that
invites an ironic reading except for the presence of director Terry
Gilliam who was brought on board after a series of directors,
including James Cameron, were previously attached to LaGravenese's
hot potato spec script. Gilliam had little interest in directing a
film he hadn't written but was convinced that the project would suit
his idiosyncratic sensibilities and that he would have the creative
control that had been denied him on previous studio projects.

That seems to be the case here, but
it's hard not to think back to the bitter struggles for the soul of
Gilliam's masterpiece “Brazil” (1985) and its vilified,
studio-mandated “Love Conquers All” ending. Anne is actually
given the line “Amor Vincit Omnia” (Latin for “Love Conquers
All”) and it's tempting to read it as a warning of what's to come
in a finale which doesn't seem much different in spirit to that
disowned version of “Brazil.” Perhaps Gilliam was in a different
mood or preferred to respect LaGravenese's script, but it's hard to
reconcile the ending of “The Fisher King” with the rest of
Gilliam's work. And in many ways this is the least overtly
Gilliam-esque Gilliam film. There are a few fish-eye lenses thrown on
for distortion, a fantasia dance sequence at Grand Central Station,
and a Red Knight roaming the streets of New York, but “The Fisher
King” is more grounded in reality than most of the director's work.

Video:

The film is presented in a 1.78:1
aspect ratio. Since Criterion did not include the usual language of
“original aspect ratio” I checked and it appears the original was
1.85:1. The transfer is listed as being “approved by Terry Gilliam”
so I guess this was his choice. There are quite a few night scenes
and darker indoor sequences in the film, and this 1080p transfer
provides impressive detail in the gloomiest, moodiest shots by
cinematographer Roger Pratt. Image detail is sharp throughout.

Audio:

The DTS-HD Master Audio 5.1 surround
track is one of the most dynamic recent mixes from Criterion. The
lossless audio offers an impressive sense of depth, preserving some
of the more expressionistic sound design as well as the fine score by
George Fenton. Optional English SDH subtitles support the English
audio.

Extras:

Criterion has absolutely stacked the
deck on this Blu-ray release.

The film is accompanied by a commentary
track by Terry Gilliam. This was originally recorded in 1991 for the
laser disc release. It's hard to believe we're deep enough into the
post-VHS video age that we can have a commentary track a quarter
century old. I haven't had a chance to listen to it but I know it's
been much admired by fans for quite some time now.

The disc includes six Deleted Scenes
running a total of 8 minutes. These are unfinished scenes which are
presented with footage from the final cut to provide context for
where they would have appeared. Nothing too revelatory here. Optional
audio commentary by Terry Gilliam.

The meatiest extras are two new
interviews with cast and crew, including Gilliam, Obst, LaGravenese,
Bridges, Ruehl, and Plummer. This could have been included as a
single hour-long interview but has been broken up into two half-hour
interviews that cut back and forth among the various participants.
The first of these (titled “The Fool And The Wounded King”) packs
in quite a bit of information about the film's production with
producer Lynda Obst still over the moon about what she claims is the
greatest screenplay she has ever read. Obst helped rescue the project
from Disney (who had no idea what to do with it) and to protect it
until the right director came along. Ruehl also speaks eloquently
about how the film's subject connected with her own studies of
literature, psychology, and myth. The second interview (“The Real
and the Fantastical”) isn't quite as compelling, but is still worth
watching.

“The Tale Of The Red Knight” (23
min.) gets off to a slow start, but eventually gives artists Keith
Greco and Vincent Jefferds the chance to talk about creating one of
the film's most prominent special effects. I felt this was a bit too
long but it still has some good stuff.

We also get two extras focusing on Jeff
Bridges. “Jeff and Jack” (20 min.) relates how Bridges learned to
portray a shock jock under the tutelage of acting coach/former radio
talk show host Stephen Bridgewater. “Jeff's Tale” (12 min.) gives
Bridges a chance to show off his photography skills. Bridges has
taken many photographs on his shoots over the years with his Widelux
Camera (described by Bridges as a panning still camera). He likes to
put together books of photos to give to cast and crew members. Here
he shares some stills from the set of “The Fisher King” along
with commentary.

“Robin's Tale” (19 min.) is a 2006
interview with Williams in which he talks about his experience on the
film, particularly the excitement and challenge of shooting on New
York locations, often at night.

We also get a brief assemblage of
Costume Test footage (3 min.) with the four major actors.

The collection wraps up with 9 full
minutes of Trailers.

The somewhat awkwardly designed
fold-out insert booklet features an essay by critic Bilge Ebiri.

Final Thoughts:

I usually start reviews by referencing
the director. This time I think I set a personal record for latest
mention of a major auteur. Perhaps that's because this only feels
partially like a Terry Gilliam film to me which certainly doesn't
make it bad, but does explain why it's probably my least favorite
Gilliam. However, it does offer some of the best acting in any
Gilliam movie and that's enough for me to enjoy “The Fisher King”
even with significant reservations about the ending. This Criterion
high-def presentation is magnificent with a splendid high-def
transfer and a passel of extras. They've release a lot of Gilliam and
here's hoping that one day not too far in the future we'll be
enjoying the three-disc super-deluxe Blu-ray release of “Terry
Gilliam's 'Don Quixote.'”

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

After all of one day of basic training,
a group of impossibly fresh-faced German teenagers is rushed out into
the field, assigned to defend their hometown bridge against the
advancing Allied forces. When fighting breaks out, the kids (the
oldest is barely sixteen) are both terrified and excited, stoked up
on just enough nationalistic propaganda to dream of glory, but
matured enough by wartime suffering to know that death is not an
abstraction. They shoot wildly, celebrate every small victory like
they'd just scored a goal, and somehow find a way to stand their
ground in a mismatched battle that pits their puny grenade launchers
and malfunctioning machine guns against an American tank column.

At this point, near the end but with a
few grueling sequences left that will feel like forever, “The
Bridge” (1959) cuts away abruptly from this courageous stand to a
nearby house where savvier veteran soldiers have wisely maintained a
low profile (i.e., hidden out). An officer curses “the idiots”
out there; if they had just let the Americans through, they could
have blown up the bridge by now and been done with this useless
target.

It's a nasty way of undermining what
seems to be the only redeeming aspect of the battle, but that's
really director Bernhard Wicki's entire point. This battle, like the
entire war, is utterly senseless and audiences are not meant to take
away any heartwarming lessons about resiliency or bravery, only to
shake their heads at the utter futility and stupidity of it all.

Plenty of war films had explored such
bleak territory before, Stanley Kubrick's magnificent “Paths of
Glory” (1957) being the first to leap to mind, but “The Bridge”
is often credited with being the first post-war German film to tackle
the subject with so little sentimentality, as an indisputable
anti-war film that sings no hymns of courage to the fatherland.
What's surprising is that Wicki pulls off this trick without
portraying anyone as an outright villain, with the possible exception
of the officers who secrete themselves in bunkers and war rooms well
away from the baby faces they will order to their deaths. The
commandant who “trains” the children actually assigns them the
insignificant task of defending an insignificant bridge because he
hopes it will protect them from the worst of the action; that he is
mistaken is a testament that he is playing a game with no winning
moves.

Wicki was an established actor whose
only previous directorial experience was on a documentary. For his
narrative feature debut, he optioned the rights to a recent popular
novel by Gregor Dorfmeister (using the pen name Manfred Gregor) which
recounts, in condensed form, the author's experience as a
sixteen-year-old conscript who was the sole survivor of a similar
battle in his Bavarian home town.

Presumably, both Dorfmeister and Wicki
deserve credit for the vivid sense of place and detail that makes the
film feel so authentic. Removing the flashback structure of the
novel, the film begins shortly before the fight where life is as
normal as it can be during what everyone hopes are the final days of
the war. Parents look on with fear every minute, praying that their
boys, busy flirting with girls and playing in treehouses that will
later become gun turrets, can hold out just a few weeks more and be
spared the suffering of their fathers and older brothers. The kids,
meanwhile, eagerly await the arrival of their draft notices;
unfortunately their wishes are fulfilled as the German war machine
has run out of spare parts.

The film employs a few heavy-handed
techniques, including a couple of fades that mash together some
too-conveniently-matched images as clunky transitions, but mostly
strikes a naturalistic tone with leisurely tracking shots that match
the easy pace of childhood (even during war) eventually giving way to
the more frenzied cutting of battle and its gallery of frightened
young faces. The fog-shrouded bridge sequences move into more surreal
territory but in the context of the insanity of teenage boys being
asked to pick up guns and fire into the darkness, who's to say
there's any functional difference between real and surreal.

Wicki's film was a critical and
commercial success, both at home and abroad, and netted an Oscar
nomination for Best Foreign Picture. It brought Wicki an opportunity
to direct in Hollywood with stars such as Ingrid Bergman and Marlon
Brando, but a follow-up hit proved elusive. Wicki returned to Germany
and only directed a few more films, settling instead for being a
larger-than-life figure (in physical stature as well as by
reputation) and a mentor of sorts, more by inspiration than direct
collaboration, to the directors who would comprise much of the New
German Cinema and who were in desperate need of a veteran role model
even while they were gleefully rejecting “papa's cinema.”

If Wicki never quite eclipsed his debut
narrative feature, consider it the peril of starting near the top.

Video:

The film is presented in its original
1.37:1 aspect ratio. Shoddy clips from the “Against The Grain”
extra (see below) give you a sense of just how much restoration wen
into this 2K transfer. The black-and-white photography is bright
though with a fairly modest level of contrast. Image sharpness is a
bit below the topline Criterion high-def transfers and you'll see the
occasional slight soft spot here and there, but this is a very strong
transfer that handles some trickier scenes like the fog-shrouded
night sequences quite well.

Audio:

The linear PCM Mono track is clean and
efficient with a slightly flat sound throughout. Nothing spectacular
but no flaws to speak of either. Optional English subtitles support
the German audio.

Extras:

Criterion has included several short
extras on this Blu-ray release.

A new interview with novelist Gregor
Dorfmeister (2015, 23 min.) is easily the most interesting feature in
this collection. Dorfmeister was still in his twenties when he
published his first novel, “The Bridge.” Interviewed here at age
86 he recounts the startling autobiographical details that inspired
his book. He notes that being in the Hitler Youth was fun because it
was mostly about playing sports. Another of his novels was adapted as
the Kirk Douglas film “Town Without Pity” (1961) but Dorfmeister
focused more on his lengthy career as a journalist.

A new interview with German director
Volker Schlondorff (2015, 10 min.) provides a brief appreciation of
the important role both “The Bridge” and Wicki played for young
German audiences and later for the New German directors of the '60s
and '70s. Schlondorff describes Wicki as a kind of spiritual
godfather to the NGC.

The disc also includes an excerpt (14
min.) from a 1989 episode of the German television show “Das
Sonntagsgesprach” in which Wicki discusses his experiences during
the war (he was interned in a concentration camp for a year and later
left the country) and in making “The Bridge.”

“Against the Grain: The Film Legend
of Bernhard Wicki” (9 min.) is an excerpt from a documentary by the
director's widow Elisabeth Wicki-Endriss. This is the only
disappointing extra on this set as about half of it consists of clips
from the film.

The slim fold-out booklet includes an
essay by critic Terrence Rafferty.

Final Thoughts:

We don't often hear a lot about German
cinema from the end of the war until the New German directors rose to
prominence. “The Bridge” is one of the more prominent German
films of the 1950s and has been presented with a strong transfer and
some interesting, if not particularly extensive, extras on this
Criterion release.

Monday, June 15, 2015

In an interview included on this
Criterion disc, Andre Gregory and Wallace Shawn describe Henrik
Ibsen's play “The Master Builder” as fundamentally mysterious.
Even developing their adaptation of the play (written by Shawn,
adapted for the stage by Gregory) over fifteen-plus years of
rehearsals they make no claim to have resolved its enigma; perhaps
their real accomplishment is to have preserved the tantalizing
mystery while updating the play for a different century and,
eventually, to the medium of film.

“A Master Builder” (2014) continues
the unofficial Gregory-Shawn film trilogy kicked off with the
legendary “My Dinner with Andre” (1981) and continued with the
much-loved “Vanya on 42nd Street” (1984). The lengthy
gaps are a testament to Gregory's unique and oft-discussed process,
the deliberate, gradual sculpting of performance over years of
periodic rehearsals with only the most minimal and gentle feedback
from a director celebrated by actors for his non-judgmental
mentoring. The younger members of the cast didn't join the troupe
until later in the process, a necessity considering some weren't yet
in kindergarten when rehearsals began.

The play was then staged exclusively
for tiny audiences of invited friends and family, an intimate process
from start to finish. Director Jonathan Demme attended one of the
final performances and was so spellbound that he was eager to sign on
for the film adaptation, accepting the daunting task of filling the
shoes of the great Louis Malle, who helmed the two previous
Gregory-Shawn joints.

In Shawn's re-working of Ibsen, Halvard
Solness (also played by Shawn) is a renowned architect fond of
erecting towering spires but now laid low by infirmity. Attended by a
group of wispy white-clad nurses, he entertains visitors from a
hospital bed situated in his living room, hooked up to monitors that
beep out the remaining seconds of his life. The insistently vocal
reminder of his mortality has made only a dent in an ego that towers
above any of his celebrated structures. Asked by an old friend
(Gregory) to perform a modest act of kindness and sacrifice to
benefit the friend's son (Jeff Biehl) who is also the Master
Builder's much-abused assistant, Solness rejects the request
indignantly; he has no intention to “step aside” to make way for
the younger generation. Let the young man fend for himself, he isn't
that talented anyway.

In due course, the film introduces the
other major players in what is left of Solness's life, including his
(justifiably) paranoid wife Aline (Julie Hagerty), his doting
assistant and possible lover Kaia (Emily Cass McDonald), and his
skeptical but devoted doctor (Larry Pine). Solness has extracted
everything he can from his ample support crew over many years (he
even believes he has a mystical power to make people follow his
unspoken desires) but it's still not enough to serve his needs.

Enter Hilde Wangel.

It's quite an entrance. Striding into
the house seemingly out of nowhere, the 22-year-old makes an
immediate impression decked out in her white short shorts.
Saucer-eyed, gulping down cubic acres of air and blowing it back out
through flared nostrils, Hilde is portrayed by Lisa Joyce as
constantly perched on the edge of hysteria, oscillating through a
series of cathartic releases that range from manic laughter to wide-eyed wonder to
even more manic laughter.

Hilde is the source of much of the
film's mystery. In Shawn's adaptation, she appears in the midst of
what is most likely Solness's deathbed delirium (the film's aspect
ratio expands from 1.78:1 to 2.35:1 wen Halvard suddenly hops up from
his bed and moves freely about the house), but she could just as
easily be an angel as a manifestation of the title character's
faltering psyche. And just as much avenging succubus as angel. Hilde
alternates from accusing Halvard of terrible crimes to turning all
her considerable hyperventilating energy to boosting his flagging
spirits. She both condemns and rehabilitates the man whom she refers
to solemnly as Master Builder, often in the same beat. To what
precise purpose, well, I guess that's a mystery.

Demme and cinematographer Declan Quinn
(who also photographed “Vanya”) shoot the film primarily in
hand-held close-ups with the occasional re-orienting zoom, resembling
the style popularized in “Homicide: Life on the Street.” It is
indisputably filmed theater that is tightly confined to Solness's
vast home (aside from a few tracking shots through town, pointed
straight up at the sky and the highest steeples in the area) but also
quite energetic, perhaps too jarringly so for the more static, talky
material.

The performances here are mostly quite
stage-intense though nobody else approaches Joyce's level of
sustained frenzy; tightly wound and unwound Julie Hagerty comes
closest. I admit to a general distaste for such a frenetic style
though I respect the effort required to sustain such ferocity. I must
confess I also don't quite get the point of the story. This imperious
wretch has drained the life from multiple generations of unfortunates
who have fallen under his possibly supernatural force of will and so
he is visited by a hot young woman who strokes both his hand and his
ego... and then what? If it's all just Solness's dying delusion, is
he confronting his many shortcomings or merely constructing Hilde as
a means of justifying and then avoiding them in his final moments?

If even experts like Gregory and Shawn
consider Ibsen's play to be inherently mysterious then perhaps it
should end with a question like most good art does. I am certainly
not troubled by not fully understanding the magnificent “Last Year
At Marienbad” even after a dozen viewings. If I'm left unsatisfied
by this story perhaps it's best that I simply admit I am not much of
a theater aficionado and certainly am not familiar with Ibsen's work.
If you're more of theater buff than I am, “A Master Builder” will
probably be right up your alley, and it is, after all, a
Gregory-Shawn production which makes it something special right from
the get go.

Video:

The film is presented in its original
aspect ratios of 1.78:1 and 2.35:1. The film was shot in 2K digital
and the smooth, grain-free look has been represented faithfully in
this high-def transfer. As you would expect, the image quality is
sharp and basically flawless.

Audio:

The DTS-HD Master Audio 5.1 surround
track is crisp and distortion-free with a subtle sense of depth. The
quiet, unobtrusive musical track sounds good though it's so darn
quiet you might not realize you're actually hearing music at times.
Optional English SDH subtitles support the English audio.

Extras:

Criterion has included approximately
two hours of extras on this Blu-ray release.

“The Ibsen Project” (2015, 34 min.)
is a conversation conducted by critic David Edelstein with Gregory,
Shawn, and Demme. The first two do most of the talking with some
discussion of their collaborative methods; replicating their roles
from “My Dinner with Andre” Shawn is the more rational one while
Gregoy acknowledges, “I don't trust the mind” at least in regards
to developing a performance.

The disc also includes a combined
interview (2015, 33 min.) with actresses Lisa Joyca and Julie
Hagerty.

“Over Time” (2015, 53 min.) is a
lengthy interview with Shawn and Gregory conducted by author Fran
Lebowitz. They speak in great detail about their working relationship
and many other subjects.

The disc also includes a brief Trailer
for the film.

The slim fold-out insert booklet
features an essay by film critic Michael Sragow.

Final Thoughts:

Criterion has released “A Master
Builder” on Blu-ray and DVD as an individual title with Spine
Number 762. They have also upgraded their prior DVD release of “My
Dinner With Andre” with a new Blu-ray version. “Vanya” was
already released on Blu-ray in 2012. For die-hard fans who haven't
bought any of the titles yet, Criterion has also included all three
films in the new boxed set “Andre Gregory and Wallace Shawn: 3
Films” which is available in a 3-disc Blu-ray version and a 5-disc
DVD version.

(An Akerman A Day continues with... five Akermans in one day. How can you beat that kind of value?)

From the lonely confines of a sparsely
furnished room to the wide open spaces of the bustling streets of New
York, Chantal Akerman’s films of the '70s comprise a unified body
of work of remarkable variety. Her films, reasonably labeled as
structuralist and characterized by long takes, may rhyme with one
another but they seldom repeat.

Both the short film “La Chambre”
(1972, 11 min.) and the first half hour of the feature “Je, tu, il,
elle” (1975) feature a woman (played by Akerman) alone in a room
but they provide strikingly different treatments of cramped domestic
spaces. In the silent “La Chambre” a camera (operated by frequent
Akerman collaborator Babette Mangolte) pans slowly around a cluttered
room. It reveals a red dining chair, a carefully arranged still life
with fruit on a table, a chest of drawers and then Akerman lying in
bed gazing at the camera and bathed in a soft painterly light
streaming from the window. The camera keeps panning, Akerman
receiving the same attention as the décor, and completes three full
circles. Each time we see Akerman, she is behaving somewhat
differently. Just when the rhythm seems to be set, it is broken as
the camera suddenly stops and pivots back left then right again,
placing our star more at the center of the arc, setting a new rhythm
which is broken yet again by one final move.

Sugar, Sugar

In “Je, tu, il, elle,” Julie
(Akerman) lives in self-imposed isolation in a Spartan ground-level
apartment. In one shot, she lies on the bed facing the camera in a
pose that directly references “La Chambre,” but Akerman has a
completely different scheme in mind here. The room starts out
cluttered like “La Chambre,” but Julie clears out everything (“An
empty room feels larger”) except for a mattress which she sets on
the floor. Though there are several camera movements, the enduring
image from this sequence is a flat, static composition of Akerman,
sometimes naked, sometimes partially clothed, lying or sitting on the
mattress. She writes letters (to whom?) which she reads in voice-over
while spoon-feeding herself pure white sugar from a brown paper bag.
The lighting scheme here is much harsher, heightening the sense of
claustrophobia. “La Chambre” was a panorama; the room in “Je,
tu, il, elle” is part sanctuary, part prison.

Hotel

In “Hotel Monterey” (1972), the
camera explores the spaces of a run-down Upper West Side hotel,
tracking down hallways or standing inside a moving elevator,
following it up and down, and surprising a few would be riders in the
process. There aren’t many people in the hotel, however, which is
part of its sad story, but even the non-descript hallways and rows of
identical doors acquire a dignified beauty as the camera roams ever
deeper and higher. Just when we think we’re sealed in this hermetic
space, Akerman has a surprise in store for the end. Suddenly, the
camera reaches the roof, emerges into daylight and then breaks out
into the city itself to provide an outside perspective on the hotel
and situate it in the city.

This unexpected movement feels like a
transition to the gorgeous feature-length“News from Home” (1976)
which takes us to the streets of New York. Images of the city are
accompanied on the soundtrack by Akerman reading letters written by
her mother. Another rhyme now. In “La Chambre” the story took
place in between camera movements, as it panned back to see Akerman
in different poses. In “News from Home” the story occurs in
between letters which mostly mention minor events or offer pleas for
Akerman to write home more often. The letters, not always read in
chronological order, indicate changes and invite us to fill in the
gaps.

Stylistically, “News from Home” is
a tour-de-force. It begins with a series of static shots of alleyways
and parked cars before introducing a few short, sharp pans then
eventually longer more fluid 360-degree movements. Akerman films
above ground and below ground (some of the subway scenes are
magnificent), during the day and in the blurry orange-red night.
After the camera has been fixed for an hour, it is abruptly set
loose. Most of the final half hour of the movie consists of several
long tracking shots taken from different vehicles: a street level
shot from a car, a higher perspective from an elevated train and a
final movement filmed from a boat or ferry. And here’s another
rhyming moment, one that resonates with the end of “Hotel
Monterey.” After exploring the city so rigorously, the camera
breaks free from its urban confines to turn back and record a broader
view from the river. As the camera gradually sails away, we see more
and more of the retreating city skyline. If you don’t feel a twinge
when the World Trade Center finally comes into view, there’s
something wrong with you.

These abrupt ruptures are a common
feature for Akerman. Her magnum opus “Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai de
Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles” (1975) meticulously traces the daily
chores of its title character but ends with a sudden plot development
that completely ruptures what seemed to be a rigid structure.
Likewise, these explosions into open space in “Hotel Monterey”
and “News from Home” as well the final camera movement in “La
Chambre” refuse the easy comfort of strict rules.

And, rhyme time again, Akerman pulls
off a similar, but not identical, trick in “Je, tu, il, elle.”
After spending a half hour watching Julie alone in her room we expect
the entire film to unspool there but suddenly we see a shot of the
apartment door and, next thing you know, Julie’s out and about. The
film is built around two more discrete segments. The first is a
sexual encounter with a trucker who spends nearly ten minutes talking
about his penis, and the second a sexual encounter with her
ex-girlfriend. The latter is filmed in several long, frank shots of
lovemaking that capture the heat and intimacy of the moment yet are
shot with such a flat affect (typical of Akerman) that they don’t
feel voyeuristic.

Anna

Shot in wide-screen and featuring a
more conventional narrative as well as a cast of professional actors,
“Les rendez-vous d’Anna” (1978) appears to be the odd duckling
in this grouping but it still shares much in common with the other
films in the set. Anna (Aurore Clement) is a director who travels
from city to city in Europe to help promote her newest film. It’s a
damned strange press junket though. We never see the film or hear
anything about it, and Anna appears to be the only one making the
rounds. The film is a travelogue almost devoid of any sight-seeing
features. With the exception of a trip to a not-quite suburb, Anna’s
trip consists almost entirely of a series of hotel rooms or public
spaces (trains, train stations, etc.). She not only travels alone but
seems to wind up in the same place each time. Kind of like “Up in
the Air.” Except good. A series of encounters (with a lover, with
her mother, with an old family friend) do little to break up the
monotony.

Some might think of Akerman’s
formalist cinema as stringent, but I’m struck by her sly sense of
humor which, curiously enough, frequently centers on food. Poor
Jeanne Dielman unable to figure out where to put that pot of cooked
potatoes. Akerman in goddess pose in “La Chambre” munching on an
apple. Julie shoveling sugar down her throat. A deadpan scene where
Julie and the trucker share a meal at a diner and listen to a gaudy
American TV show (“Cannon,” I think) that consists mostly of
gunshots, sirens and revving motors.

I find Chantal Akerman’s films warm,
playful, vital, and thoroughly compelling. The movies in this set
offer the very best of her work (aside from the previously released
“Jeanne Dielman”) and it’s hard to believe she hadn’t even
turned 28 by the time she wrapped shooting on the last film in the
set. Akerman is an electric talent like no other.

Video:

“Les rendez-vous D’Anna” is
presented in its original 1.66:1 aspect ratio. All other films are
presented in their original 1.33:1 full-screen ratios. “Je, tu, il,
elle” is in black-and-white, everything else in color. Though the
Eclipse series does not provide restored transfers, the films here
look quite good. I was very pleasantly surprised by the quality of
“Je, tu, il, elle” which I have previously only seen on a
miserable VHS copy. The harsh lighting scheme and the sharp shadows
on the walls stand out vividly here. Some of the darkest shots from
inside the truck are lacking, but that’s my only complaint.Overall,
I’m thrilled with the transfers here.

Audio:

“La Chambre” and “Hotel Monterey”
are silent. The other films are presented in Dolby Digital Mono, and
there’s not much to say abut the audio design. I wonder if we’re
missing some of the richness of the original ambient soundtrack in
“News from Home” but I have no way to make that judgment.
Optional English subtitles are provided for the sound films.

Extras:

As with all Eclipse release, no extras
are offered with this set. However, as usual, the brief liner notes
are very informative.

There are three discs in the set.

Disc One, titled “The New York Films”
contains “La Chambre,” “Hotel Monterey,” and “News from
Home.” Disc Two has “Je, tu, il, elle” and Disc Three has “Les
rendez-vous d’Anna.”

Final Thoughts:

“Jeanne Dielman” is Akerman’s
indisputable masterpiece and Criterion’s release of the film was
probably the DVD highlight of 2009. “Chantal Akerman in the
Seventies” is a marvelous companion offering that shows how deep
and rich Akerman's body of work is.

I’m not shy about using the m-word
and I’m going to do so again. “Je, tu, il, elle” is a
masterpiece that would be the crowning achievement for many
directors, and I won’t argue with anyone who applies the same term
to “News from Home” or “La Chambre.” I don’t think “Hotel
Monterey” is quite in a class with those films but it’s still
mesmerizing. “Les rendez-vous d’Anna” is a mild disappointment
after her earlier work in the decade, but that’s one hell of a
standard to hold someone to. Most filmmakers never dream of making
something the caliber of “Anna” and if that’s your “weakest”
film of the decade then I’m going to guess that your name is
Chantal Akerman.

This is a phenomenal set, perhaps the
best the Eclipse series has offered.

Thursday, June 4, 2015

(Chantal Akerman celebrates a birthday on June 6. I'm celebrating her work with an Akerman A Day the rest of this week.)

In her documentary “From the Other
Side” (2002), Chantal Akerman tweaks the old saw “Show, don't
tell” to “Show OR tell.”

She keeps the two distinct. In show
mode, Akerman's camera glides gracefully along the dusty streets of
a Mexican town, or sits implacably still as children play baseball in
an open field, with only ambient sounds as accompaniment. In tell
mode, the Belgian auteur turns her attention exclusively to her
subjects who are framed in modest, static shots as they relate their
unadorned stories about the perils of crossing the border into
America. No further illustration (save for wisps of a classical score
in an opening interview) is either allowed or necessary; testimony is
a cinematic event unto itself.

The film begins on the Mexican side of
the border as a young man talks about his older brother who was
abandoned by coyotes (paid “guides” who smuggle immigrants across
the border) to fend for himself in the Arizona desert. Later, a woman
speaks about her son and grandson who died during a crossing.

In this latter shot, Akerman and her
crew are visible in the reflection of a television screen, and an
off-screen voice asks a few questions in Spanish, but for the most
part, the director cedes the stage to her subjects. Combined with the
tracking shots through town (one virtuoso shot trails a long line of
traffic at a border checkpoint, then peels off at the last second to
remain in Mexico), Akerman assumes the persona of a visitor who is
probing the surface with the keen eye of a trained observer, but also
with the humility of a stranger who cannot claim any sense of
authority over complex matters or the subjects who know their stories
best.

The film provides eloquent witness to
the perils of turn-of-the-century U.S. Immigration policy which made
it more difficult for immigrants to get into cities like San Diego,
with the side-effect of forcing them into far more dangerous
crossings in the Southwestern desert. But Akerman isn't presumptuous
enough to offer solutions to intransigent issues that have vexed
locals for decades. She is there to record, with a sense of
melancholy and compassion, the attitudes of people on both sides of
the border. Later in the film, she hops over to Douglas, AZ,
speaking first to the Mexican consul, then later to a sheriff who at
least provides the impression of a balanced attitude towards “the
problem” though whether he's playing nice for the camera is harder
to say.

Akerman could take the opportunity to
underscore the parochialism of an Arizona couple who expresses some
outsized paranoia about the immigrant population, but the choice to
let them speak for themselves is eloquent enough in its own right.
I've read some complaints about Akerman not providing enough “facts”
for an in-depth analysis, but I'm not sure how the first-hand
testimony of bereaved relatives and Arizona residents doesn't qualify
as “fact.” The director isn't out to shoot a “60 Minutes”
segment. What she has provided instead is a sober, stately and
respectful portrait, and if she resists overt commentary, the somber
tone suggests that she most certainly has an opinion on the subject –
just no cheap “click on my website” style solutions to offer.

Akerman is even more self-effacing in
the documentary “South” (1999), provided as a bonus on the second
disc of this set from Icarus Films. She planned a “meditation” on
the South, but the film changed its focus when James Byrd Jr., an
African-American man, was chained to the back of a pick-up truck and
dragged to his death by three men claimed to be white supremacists.
The murder shook the small town of Jasper, TX and, far too briefly,
the rest of the nation.

Akerman uses a similar strategy as in
“From the Other Side,” employing tracking shots through town
(including one that may be a retracing of the pick-up truck's route)
and no-frills interviews with locals, as well as a lengthy sequence
filmed at Byrd's funeral service. The facts are shocking enough, but
I let out a gasp when one African-American woman noted quite
matter-of-factly that there “isn't as much lynching” as in the
old days. Not as much, mind you, but still some.

Video:

Both films are presented in 1.78:1
anamorphic transfers. “South” is the weaker of the two transfers,
suffering from mediocre image detail throughout, something visible
even in the first shot as the lettering on a church sign isn't in
sharp resolution. However, the transfer is acceptable enough that it
doesn't interfere with the viewing experience. “From the Other
Side” fares better. Image detail isn't exactly razor sharp and the
colors are a bit wan at times, but overall the picture is solid
enough to do justice to the director's painterly compositions.

Audio:

The Dolby Digital Stereo tracks aren't
particularly dynamic, but the ambient sound on the tracking shots in
“From the Other Side” is deep enough to convey the desired
effect. I had a problem with the volume level on “South.” No
subtitles are provided and I needed to crank the volume to double the
normal level to make out all of the dialogue. However, that's a minor
enough issue. English subtitles are provided (and are non-optional)
for the Spanish dialogue (but not the English) in “From the Other
Side.”

Extras:

The films are housed on separate discs
in this two-disc collection. The disc with “From the Other Side”
includes a five-minute clip from Akerman's magnificent film “From The East” (1993), also released by Icarus a few years ago.
Otherwise, there are no extras.

Final Thoughts:

While we might all hope for more souped-up releases with restored
transfers and piles of extras, it's fantastic that Icarus has now
released three of Chantal Akerman's recent and lesser-seen documentaries. I
wouldn't rank either of these with her phenomenal “From the East,”
but that's a tough standard. “From the Other Side” and “South”
are excellent additions to anyone's library.

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

(Chantal Akerman, one of the greatest filmmakers of the past half century, turns 65 on June 6. I will be celebrating her work by re-posting an "Akerman A Day" the rest of this week.)

An empty train platform at night – a
car whizzes by in the background.

A window opens out onto a country road
– more cars glide past, barely glimpsed.

A man sits on a bench staring at the
camera and waiting for… something.

An older woman walks along the street,
the camera tracking her journey.

Tourists luxuriate on an isolated beach
as an off-screen singer carries a tune.

It’s tempting to review Chantal
Akerman’s “From the East” (“D’est,” 1993) by providing a
catalog of its sounds and images because that’s precisely what the
film is, an intimate record of what Akerman saw and heard on her trip
through post-Wall Eastern Europe in the early '90s.

“From the East” is not a
traditional documentary, not that there is any such thing. Akerman
provides no voice-over, no on-screen titles to indicate place or
time, no narrative through-line. Instead she (re)constructs her
travelogue as a full sensory immersion into her journey through East
Germany, Poland (where Akerman's parents were born), Moscow and
points in-between. Ambient soundscapes are every bit as important as
what the camera shows and may, at times, provide only the impression
of having been recorded in synch with the image.

In an essay included with this
disc, Akerman writes, “I’d like to shoot everything. Everything
that moves me.” And she is moved by people, landscapes, public
spaces, objects, music, movement, summer, winter, day, night and even
the most banal chores, the latter of which is no surprise to anyone
who has seen her magisterial “Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce,
1080 Bruxelles” (1975).

The film is an exercise in variations,
a balancing act between opposite or complementary elements:
interior/exterior, domestic/public, stasis/motion, noise/silence,
city/rural, people/objects, crowds/individuals. In many scenes, she
shoots people who are unaware of the camera, filming spontaneously as
they go about their business. In other shots, individuals are
carefully arranged like models as they stare at the camera. I
wouldn't be surprised if some of the crowd shots were partially
staged as well.

The two major motifs of the film are
travel and performance. Trains, buses and cars are major players in
the film, cues that remind us of Akerman’s journey. They also
provide evidence of fellow travelers, people waiting (there is so
much waiting in this movie) in line at the station, their route
briefly intersecting hers. As for performance, most of the audible
dialogue (none of which is subtitled, and shouldn’t be) comes from
singers, some heard off-screen, some on. In the film’s penultimate
scene, a woman (Natalia Chakhovskaia) plays cello for an enthralled
audience (never seen, only heard later) and accepts congratulatory
flowers. Perhaps she’s a stand-in for Akerman the performer or,
more likely, another person who moves the director.

With its long, deliberately-paced shots
(both stationary and tracking), “From the East” begs to be looked
at and listened to (don't ignore this, Akerman has seldom been one to
let sound play second fiddle to image) with great care. In this
regard the film serves a “documentary” function, providing
audio-visual evidence of specific times and places even if they
aren’t indicated in the film. I’m sure they elicit different
responses (nostalgia perhaps) from people familiar with them than
they do for viewers whose life experience is exclusively “From the
West.”

“From the East” is a truly
beautiful film, mysterious, absorbing and mesmerizing. Not to be
missed.

Video:

The film is presented in a 1.33:1
full-screen ratio. The interlaced transfer is not restored and it
shows some of the damage from the source print, some scratches and
debris but not enough to be a distraction. More problematic is a
rather hazy image quality throughout, a shortcoming that is visible
in the screencaps interspersed throughout this review. It would be
nice to see a pristine restoration to showcase the gorgeous
cinematography, but we'll take this serviceable copy of a
difficult-to-find and essential film.

Audio:

The DVD is presented in Dolby Digital
Stereo. No subtitles are provided even for the limited dialogue
(mostly sung) that is heard in the film. They’re not supposed to be
subtitled.

Extras:

There are no extras on the DVD but the
liner notes include a very helpful essay/statement of purpose by
Chantal Akerman.

Final Thoughts:

“From The East” is a film that
defies easy categorization. It’s a documentary in the same way the
Werner Herzog’s desert travelogue “Fata Morgana”(1970) is a
documentary which is to say that it depends on your definition of the
term. Forget categories. Let’s just say it has an ineffable quality
that makes it as much an experience as a movie. “Jeanne Dielman”
is indisputably Akerman’s masterpiece, but “From the East” is
one of her finest achievements. Thanks to Icarus for bringing this to
a home audience.